


Wanton

by eluna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Background Gadreel (Supernatural), Conflicted Sam Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester UST, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s09e05 Dog Dean Afternoon, Gadreel Possessing Sam Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Injured Dean Winchester, Injury Kink, Light Feminisation, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Season/Series 09, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna
Summary: Sam knows Dean well enough to know that Dean’s not stupid. Whatever his pain tolerance doesn’t shield him from, he’ll want to push through on his own—but not at risk of botching a hunt. They’ve still got a few hours to kill before dark, when they’ll break into the restaurant to search for clues; Sam’s willing to bet that the pain in Dean’s chest is only going to get worse in that time. It’s already bad enough that he couldn’t hide it, that he asked Sam to research his symptoms, even if he wouldn’t let Sam see the infected skin for longer than a few seconds.Or—he wouldn’t let Sam see it yet, anyway. There’s a tremor in Sam’s hands as he wrings scalding-hot bathwater from two thin and yellowing bathroom towels, and shockwaves radiate up from his feet as he trudges back into the main room toward his brother.[adj., (of a cruel or violent action) deliberate and unprovoked; sexually immodest or promiscuous]





	Wanton

**Author's Note:**

> I have several dozen story ideas and half-finished drafts for new one-shots and series installments that I should be writing, but instead I give you this trash. I have no excuse and I'm sorry D:
> 
> Slightly AU set in between the canonical events of Dog Dean Afternoon, though nothing that happens in this story diverges from canon enough to alter the course of the show.

“I think you have something called acute septic mastitis,” Sam hedges as Dean emerges from the bathroom, his pecs visibly distended underneath his thin T-shirt. Sam rips his eyes away from them and up to Dean’s face, feeling a surge of guilt when he sees that Dean is wincing.

“Acute septi-what now?” he asks gruffly. From where he’s sprawled out on Dean’s bed, the Colonel whines something that must either annoy or terribly frighten Dean, because his eyes flick toward the dog as he mutters a pointed _shut up_.

Sam sighs a little, as quietly as he can help it: with Dean’s refusal to show anything he perceives as weak or feminine, let alone both, Sam’s not even remotely looking forward to having this conversation with him. “Acute septic mastitis,” he repeats. “Humans _can_ contract it, usually during breastfeeding, but my guess is—”

Dean yelps, “Wait a minute, during _breastfeeding_? I don’t have—I ain’t—I ain’t got _breasts_! I am a—”

“I’m not questioning your masculinity, so you can relax. Look, I think the Colonel has it, and the spell is making you—mimic his symptoms or something.”

“The Colonel’s not a chick, either, unless he’s been lying to me about his—” The dog barks sharply until Dean stops talking, then snarls low and long for a few moments. “Yeah?” Dean continues, facing the Colonel. “Well, then, why don’t you explain to me how—”

“Dean, male dogs can contract this type of mastitis. It’s rare, but it happens,” Sam says, sighing again, and Dean’s eyes snap back to his. “He could have been infected if something scratched him near a, um, near a teat, or it could be a secondary infection that originated elsewhere in his body. Worst-case scenario, he’s got cancer—”

Sam’s interrupted by simultaneous, loud yapping from the Colonel and Dean both. “We’ll make sure the Colonel’s next owners know to get him checked out by a vet as soon as possible. He’ll be fine, all right? And Kevin says your symptoms should wear off at the same time as the spell’s other effects, so you’re not going to contract anything permanent.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean gingerly sits on his bed next to the Colonel, where he starts absently scratching behind the dog’s ears and across his back. Sam watches the flexing of his hands and forearms, but then he remembers his self-loathing.

Dean asks, “So I just gotta wait it out?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, that’s just great. Fan-frickin’-tastic.”

Sam glances pointedly away and toward the floor. “It says here a warm compress should help. Five minutes on and five minutes off for thirty minutes—hot as you can stand it.”

“Careful what you wish for,” says Dean, and when Sam looks back up at him, his mouth is quirked up at one corner.

Sam knows Dean well enough to _know_ that Dean’s not stupid. Whatever his pain tolerance doesn’t shield him from, he’ll want to push through on his own—but not at risk of botching a hunt. They’ve still got a few hours to kill before dark, when they’ll break into the restaurant to search for clues; Sam’s willing to bet that the pain in Dean’s chest is only going to get worse in that time. It’s already bad enough that he couldn’t hide it, that _he_ asked _Sam_ to research his symptoms, even if he wouldn’t let Sam see the infected skin for longer than a few seconds.

Or—he wouldn’t let Sam see it yet, anyway. There’s a tremor in Sam’s hands as he wrings scalding-hot bathwater from two thin and yellowing bathroom towels, and shockwaves radiate up from his feet as he trudges back into the main room toward his brother.

Dean’s propped himself up against the headboard of his bed, bickering (Sam presumes) in a low voice with the dog even as he tenderly rubs circles into the Colonel’s inflamed belly. Sam tries to speak, but his throat’s all clogged with nerves, and when he clears his throat, Dean’s shoulders jolt and stiffen. “He says it helps,” Dean offers with a weak shrug, and Sam nods.

“Lie on your back. Him, too.”

Sam’s never quite sure that the Colonel can understand him—and deep down, Sam _envies_ Dean’s ability to connect with the Colonel on a level that Sam can’t; his gut roils the same way it did when Dean slept with Sam’s prom date, same as every time Dean and Dad went out bar-hopping or worked on the car or bonded over the million Winchester legacies that took Dean further away from him—but without Dean saying a word to translate, the Colonel obediently rolls from his side onto his back, exposing his discolored teats to the air. Wincing with sympathy, Sam fumbles with his phone to start a timer, splaying one of the wet-hot towels over the Colonel's bruises, but by the time he’s finished, Dean's still sitting ramrod straight.

“Give me that,” he tells Sam, reaching for the remaining towel. “I got it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve stitched up your chest a thousand times before.” Mercifully, Sam’s voice sounds a lot steadier than he feels. “Lie down and take off your shirt.”

“I’m a grown-ass man, Sammy; I can apply my own compress—” The Colonel must say something, then, because Dean’s face pales, and he looks to the side with a scowl.

“Dean, I’m not gonna stand here arguing with you about it.”

Dean’s back tenses even more, but then he scoots down until really only his shoulders and head are propped up against pillows. He grunts as he reaches for the bottom hem of his shirt and, with shaking hands, curls the fabric higher up his chest, so that the front of it is bunched between his collarbone and his chin, the back rucked up a little where it’s crushed beneath his body weight.

The infection is—Sam tries not to wince, knows that Dean will only get more skittish if he does. A web of reddish-purple bruising bursts across Dean’s swollen pectorals, probably further irritated by the layers of shirts he’s had on for most of the day. He’s clutching a handful of his shirt in each fist where his hands are resting below his shoulders, looking away _bashfully_ , shame ringing his eyes, and the effect makes Dean look—

Sam doesn’t even want to think it, doesn’t want to make Dean’s pain and discomfort about the awful, unnatural things Sam wants from him, but he can’t help it: it’s so rare that Dean permits him to see him when he’s vulnerable. Dean only ever does expose himself to Sam like this in moments of efficiency—stitching a wound, surveying his injuries—so, really, it’s little wonder that Sam’s come to associate Dean getting hurt with… well.

Bowing his head, Sam splays the towel across Dean’s chest to encompass the bruising. Dean sucks in a sharp breath and doesn’t exhale until, flinching, Sam lets go. He says quietly, “These towels aren’t hot enough. I’ll be right back.”

The kitchenette hasn’t got a stove, just a microwave, so Sam wrings out two more wet towels and wraps them carefully and evenly into knockoff Ziploc bags that he heats up in the dingy microwave. By the time he’s taken them both out and ripped off the plastic, the first five minutes must be up, because Dean’s pulled off both his own compress and the Colonel’s. The dog’s rolled back onto his side, drooling and snoring gently, and Dean’s smiling down at him a little. Beads of water glisten on the discolored skin of Dean’s chest.

Sam gulps. “Feel any better?”

“Kinda. Thanks, Sammy.” Dean’s voice comes out scratchy and low.

He waits a few long seconds, then once again takes care of the Colonel first, cautiously winding the compress around what he can reach of the dog’s belly. The Colonel snuffles quietly, nuzzling the side of his face deeper into the mattress near Dean’s elbow. Sam’s trembling again when he tucks the other towel in around Dean, pressing the corners taut underneath his back. Before he notices what he’s doing, Sam’s hands trail back around to Dean’s pecs, just—just resting, but Dean looks at him and he stares back at his brother and Dean—

—Dean moans, wide-eyed and startled, and Sam mumbles out an apology and yanks his hands away, wringing them together in the air. But then Dean says, “’S okay, Sammy,” and something clogs inside Sam’s throat, behind his eyes, and Dean goes on, “The little bastard was right—that _does_ feel… not terrible.”

“No?” Sam mutters hoarsely, and he puts his hands back where he wants them, kneading Dean’s, shit, Dean’s breast through the towel a little with his fingertips, and the swelling feels tender to the touch, and Dean groans.

“Damn, that’s good stuff,” he breathes, smiling, and then his eyelids fall closed. “Just like that, Sammy.”

And Sam—he’s just helping out his brother, that’s all, because Dean is _injured_ , he’s hurt, and for once he’s trusting Sam to make it better and not the other way around. Sam can’t fuck this up. He can’t—but there’s something wrong with _Sam_ , too, that twists him up with rage whenever Dean gets by all right without him and with wanting when Dean doesn’t, that makes him want to own Dean the same way he knows Dean owns him, and—

Sam—blinks, or something, and when he orients himself again and looks back at his brother, there are tear tracks staining Dean’s cheeks and he’s pulled his shirt back down. When Sam glances back down at his hands, he finds them fisted at his sides. “Dean, what—?”

“Everything’s fine, kiddo. I just—I just wanna sleep for a while, all right?”

So he does.


End file.
